


Showing Off

by GooberFeesh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M, Potterlock, Teen Romance, Winter Mystrade Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3152378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GooberFeesh/pseuds/GooberFeesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft visits an unconscious Greg in the Hospital Wing following the Hufflepuff Chaser's accident during a Quidditch match. He can only hope that Greg's injuries are of minimal damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Showing Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QED_Scribblings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QED_Scribblings/gifts).



> Written for the 2014 Winter Mystrade Exchange on tumblr.

"Was that Holmes? _Mycroft_ Holmes?" 

"Couldn't've been."

"Blimey, I really think it was."

"Are you sure? Don't think I've ever seen him run before, then."

"I know. _He's_ usually the one telling the First Years not to run in the halls."

Had the Sixth Year in question actually heard the conversational exchange between the two members of his House, he would have either glared them into silence or dismissed them back to the common room. However, since Mycroft was going as fast as his feet could take him, he had little time to strictly uphold his Prefect duties. 

After slipping past several congregating groups he finally arrived, breathless, in the hospital wing. Mycroft leaned heavily in the doorway for a moment as he fought to catch his breath, his lungs working hard to ensure that he received enough air. 

In spite of having incredibly long legs, he had never been particularly fond of running. It was _distasteful_ to run when walking was calmer, controlled, and much more organized than flailing about. One _could_ make the argument, he supposed, that running was convenient when tardiness was in effect, yet Mycroft had never been (and _would_ never be) tardy for anything. 

When he felt as though he could move again without requiring one of the hospital wing beds himself, he smoothed out his jumper, swept an auburn curl off of his pale forehead, and strolled forward as calmly as his rapidly beating heart would allow. 

He wasn't surprised to pass several ill students as he walked along the aisle of beds, given the time of year and its damp, dreary, bitterly chilled air. However, it was not a sickbed he was visiting, but one belonging to an _injured_ student instead. Said injured student had collided with an opposing Quidditch player not twenty minutes before and had fallen off his broom. 

Mycroft was thankful that the impact along the sloshy ground hadn't been too severe (they weren't high up when it had happened) but it'd been more than enough to knock Greg Lestrade unconscious. 

The anxious Slytherin fiddled with the sleeves of his jumper as he neared what he assumed was Greg's bed, due to the crowd that was gathered round. Several of them, Mycroft knew, were simply admirers - lovesick Fifth and Six Years of the female variety that pined for the terribly handsome, notoriously cheeky Hufflepuff Chaser. The others Mycroft recognized as Greg's teammates, if not for quarreling with Madam Pomfrey to remain by Greg's side then by their muddied uniforms. 

"There's far too many of you in here," she fussed, attempting to shoo the lot of them away. "Mr. Lestrade needs rest, and I hardly think he'll get any with so many visitors hovering about his bed." 

The admirers were the first of the group to reluctantly depart, sighing wistfully and wishing Greg well with blown kisses and promises to carry his books so he wouldn't overexert himself the following day. _Preposterous_ , Mycroft thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 

Greg's teammates were a bit more difficult to coax into leaving, yet they eventually agreed when Madam Pomfrey assured them that they could return later that evening and stay even longer then, after things had quieted down. It was only when the last trace of canary yellow and black had vanished that Mycroft strolled forward, quietly, and stepped around the curtain that had concealed Greg's torso from view. 

Madam Pomfrey, who had been ready to sigh in exasperation, blinked in surprise when she noticed that the appraching teenager wasn't a disobedient student, but one who was famously known around Hogwarts for his remarkable intelligence, astounding cleverness, and a truly unmatched attention to detail. 

"Oh, Mr. Holmes. I didn't expect to see you here," she said, catching his eye. "Have you come to see Mr. Lestrade as well?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied, ever honest. "I was present when he fell off his broom at the match, and I felt it best to make sure that he was alright." 

Although outwardly casting a deceiving aura of tranquility, his mind was irrationally fretful: Greg had yet to wake from his fall. Greg had a nasty bruise on his cheek. Greg was still dressed in his damp Quidditch uniform, jeopardizing his already compromised health (Mycroft knew it was compromised because Greg had barely been eating in between his vigorous practices for that day's match). At the very least he was still breathing, which was more than enough of a relief. 

"May I sit with him?" Mycroft inquired. 

Madam Pomfrey looked unsure about the answer she was no doubt debating with - most likely because she had told the others to leave Greg alone - but she knew that Mycroft Holmes wasn't by any means a troublemaker, and that he personally escorted more than a fair share of injured or ill students to her weekly (much to their dismay).

"Yes. Yes, alright," she finally conceded, albeit firmly. "But only for a short while. He really _does_ need his rest." 

And with that she briskly strode away to attend to a sobbing Fourth Year, who looked to have sprouted beetle-like pincers on either side of their mouth. Sitting down, Mycroft allowed practiced indifference to fade from his expression while genuine worry replaced it. 

Greg had been set in the last bed of the wing, which meant that in addition to having a curtain concealing them from direct view, they were also given the luxury of privacy by being so far down. This was the _only_ reason that Mycroft reached out and gently, so very gently, brushed his long fingers against Greg's shorter, calloused ones; they rested on the bed limply, protruding from his gloves. 

"You were far too careless today, Gregory," Mycroft chided, speaking in a tone that didn't exceed their hearing range. "I dread to think what could have happened had you been any higher off the ground when you fell." 

It seemed fruitless to talk to someone who wasn't awake and listening, yet it didn't stop Mycroft from voicing his internalized frustrations—erm, concerns. 

"You could have easily prevented your earlier collision had you exercised proper caution," he continued, fussing with Greg's motionless fingers a bit more. "This is your third consecutive injury of the season, and your _twelfth_ since you began playing Quidditch. You ought to have your name written on this bed." 

Fearing that he may have grown too 'animated' in conveying his frustrati— **concerns** , Mycroft looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard him. Madam Pomfrey, thankfully, seemed none the wiser. The same went for the other students that were around.

Mycroft would have continued spying for at least another ten seconds (there was nothing wrong with being thorough) yet a weak squeeze of his fingers had his attention snapping back to the bed, where Greg had _finally_ begun to stir. On any other occasion Mycroft would have alerted Madam Pomfrey immediately; it was important that Greg had come to, and Mycroft didn't doubt that their dedicated matron would want to have a look at him now that he was awake.

Be that as it may… Mycroft may have, _selfishly_ , wished to have a moment with Greg before anyone else knew that he was no longer unresponsive. 

"Nhhn." It was a sound of disorientation more than anything else, but it preceded the opening of dazed, brown eyes. Greg's unfocused irises shifted beneath heavy lids, commanding his contracting pupils to regain their focus. When they did some seconds later, the first thing Greg saw was the boy seated at his bedside. " _Myc?_ "

"Well," Mycroft sniffed, masking the joyous relief that washed through him with feigned nonchalance. "It's good to know that your memory remains intact."

Greg groaned - a low, raspy sound in his dry throat - as he shut his eyes again. "My head bloody hurts…" 

"I'm not surprised. You hit it rather hard when you collided with your opposing Chaser." 

"Huh," Greg said simply, dumbfounded. "Did we win?"

Mycroft resisted his desire to pinch the bridge of his nose. " _Honestly_ , Gregory. You've just woken up after being unconscious for nearly half an hour, and the first thing you ask is if your team won." 

"… _did_ we?"

"Oh, for God's sake. **Yes** , Hufflepuff won. Your Seeker caught the Snitch seconds after you fell." Mycroft tried to ignore how pleased Greg looked in the midst of his wooziness as he scooted a bit closer to the bed. "Do you feel as though you retained any additional injuries?"

"Dunno," Greg replied, furrowing his brow. 

To see if he had indeed hurt himself elsewhere, he wiggled his fingers (even the ones that had yet to release Mycroft's fingers) and then slowly rotated his arms and legs. Everything _seemed_ to be working fine, and nothing ached when he moved it. No, it looked like he'd managed to get away unscathed (if you didn't count his hammering head). 

"Think I'm OK."

Mycroft, who had been watching closely, felt his initial relief grow into something that was genuinely reassuring. "You should consider yourself lucky, then."

"'Course I do. I've got you." Dizzy as he was, Greg tugged Mycroft's fingers to his lips and kissed them charmingly.

Unlike one of Greg's female admirers, who would have surely melted through the floor had Greg done such a thing to them, Mycroft simply scoffed. "I'm beginning to believe that you suffered more cranial damage than I originally thought. You may very well be dying." 

Greg laughed a little at that, though he stopped when the effort of doing so sent angry pulses of pain through his skull. _Ow_. "You know I can't die yet. Not before we've spent the summer together."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "And when exactly was this decided?"

"What d'you mean, 'when exactly was this decided'? You said it yourself - that we could spend time together over the summer." 

"What I _said_ ," Mycroft corrected, pushing down on Greg's chest when he tried to sit up, "was that there was a _possibility_ that we could meet at some point. Sherlock will be starting at Hogwarts this September, and I intend to make sure that he is properly prepared in both supplies and curriculum." 

Greg had yet to meet the younger Holmes, but he'd heard plenty of stories from Mycroft to know that his little brother was a right handful; he also knew that both Mycroft and Sherlock's parents were muggles and they hadn't a clue as far as magic went. He reckoned that was why Mycroft was so determined to make sure Sherlock was ready come autumn. 

"Gonna teach him all the Slytherin secrets, eh?"

"Certainly not," Mycroft disagreed, not quite keen on sharing 'Slytherin secrets' with _anyone_ , let alone Sherlock. "In any case, I should think he's better suited for Ravenclaw."

"Heh. Maybe he'll end up in Hufflepuff and surprise us both."

"That's a matter best left to the Sorting Hat," Mycroft droned. He reached out to brush away some clumps of mud from Greg's dark hair. "I should inform Madam Pomfrey that you're awake."

"Do you have to?" Greg almost groaned. "She'll just get onto me again about not being careful." 

"You _weren't_ careful," Mycroft reminded coolly. "Perhaps if you didn't insist on showing off you could avoid your far too frequent visits to the hospital wing." 

Greg's next response caught Mycroft completely off guard: "I only show off because I know you're watching."

Oh, well… Mycroft cleared his throat and desperately hoped that his freckled cheeks didn't look as hot as they felt. As he opened his mouth to provide a response, an approaching voice spoke from behind him.

"I see that you're awake, Mr. Lestrade."

Far quicker than the blink of an eye, Mycroft withdrew his hand from Greg's just as Madam Pomfrey stepped round the curtain. He stood from his seat and stepped back, allowing her to replace him and view Greg for herself. As she examined him and asked questions, Mycroft stood aside and idly ran his fingers over the shape of his wand, which laid along the inside of his sleeve. 

Eventually, he felt that it was time to leave. He waited until Madam Pomfrey had gone off to fetch something to bid Greg farewell. This, of course, didn't bode well on the bedridden Chaser. 

"Where're you going?" he asked. 

"To the library. I postpone my studies when I attend one of your matches," Mycroft answered. 

Had Greg the strength to get up, he would have physically grabbed onto Mycroft and prevented him from going anywhere. Being unable to, he settled for asking: "Will I see you later?"

"Possibly. Should you be released before dinner, you'll know where to find me." 

Greg would have replied, yet Madam Pomfrey returned and blocked his boyfriend from view. Amused, Mycroft walked away to the sound of Greg being scolded. He continued on until he left the hospital wing to venture down the hallway. He'd not made it more than halfway to the staircase when a group of First Years darted past him. 

"No running in the hallways, please," he called after them, and as they screeched to a halt and sheepishly looked over their shoulders, he added: "Thank you."

Descending the stairs, Mycroft began to think: The summer really would be busy with first-time purchases of books, parchment, quills, and all else that Sherlock needed. Although…spending time with Greg could have happened if he planned it accordingly. 

 Yes, Mycroft thought, smiling. Perhaps they _would_ be seeing each other after all. 


End file.
